


Spin

by kalijean



Series: Arch to the Sky [22]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Gen, M/M, Nipawin (1991-1995), Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2011-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 10:39:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/pseuds/kalijean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1992: Another day in the life of Guy Laurent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spin

What the Hell time is it anyway?

 _Ngh_. That was some screech, last night. I think I may only remember just how bad it was simply because I can smell it on the carpet.

Not the best place to wake up, no, but there is a reason I chose a place with carpet this thick.

I roll over, blinking off the spin of the room, and right the glasses on my face. Shit. Fuck. They don't fit right. I am groaning as I pull them off to bend them back into shape, an act that negates much of their very purpose; light from the gaps in the curtains is fucking eye-ball searing, and I decide to let them be a little wonky for today.

I sniff. I sniff again.

Oh, yeah. That's right. It was meant to be peach flavored 'shine. Pity the paint thinner taste was strong with this one. I pick up the turned over bottle and down the dregs in one go. Peach chunks and kerosene. It tastes as awful as I can't remember it did, and I don't give a shit.

I scrub a hand through my hair. The room has momentarily stopped spinning, and I manage to sit the fuck up only to knock my head off the coffee table. Not for the first time in my life, though for this instance, I don't remember crawling under it.

I correct my glasses again and finally sit up properly only to be greeted with the-- fine, it's pretty familiar by now-- unwelcome sight of Longfellow's bare backside parked on my couch. The girl I was after is parked, equally naked, on Longfellow.

God dammit. I did most of the work on that one. That prick owes me one.

I rub my eyes from behind my glasses, and well-practiced by now, I get up to navigate the spinning room to the kitchen. I'm halfway through filling up the bucket of cold water when I look down myself and realize I'm naked and covered in black ink.

Oh, yes?

It's not the size that matters, assholes, it is how you use it. I would like you to trust me when I tell you I use it _well_. And it was cold last night. So fuck you. With someone else's dick, because you shall not have the pleasure of mine, which is, in fact, _very_ impressive.

The phone number written just under my nipple offsets the written challenge to my manhood, anyway, and I hope to God it's the redhead that lives down the road from Renfield, just so I can try to make her scream loud enough for that Mountie to hear it several houses over. There's a small chance it could've been the skinny guy with the spiky hair, but hey. A phone number's a phone number, and I choose not to critique its source until I am some measure more conscious.

I bring my bucket back to the living room, soaking carpet along the way, because the spin has not quite left me yet. I dump it unceremoniously on my couch and its two current occupants.

There is screaming and swearing and smirking, the latter on my part alone, I assure you. I bounce the bucket off of Longfellow's head and stride off toward my bedroom, scratching my ass, to throw on some clothes.

I am quick, though I do take a moment to admire the rather fine abstract work someone has left in purple across one ass cheek. I hop out the window when I've dressed, not particularly feeling like dodging Longfellow's fist.

***

I've been doing a little business today, and my pockets are bearers of little treasures that I'd far prefer not to trouble Renfield with, so I've been reasonably well-behaved. Not sure he'd notice anyway. He's too far up Mark's ass at the moment, and I indulge myself with wondering if those two have done so _literally_.

Renfield Turnbull is a kind of sideways innocent that means he is not always what the casual observer would expect. It makes for the occasional shocker in the sea of straightforward, rare though it is; it is a great deal of the man's entertainment value. That said, even I cannot picture the man bent over something and screaming for more. I'm vastly sexually uninterested in men, but I do not shy away from such imaginings where they entertain me, so my inability to picture it is based entirely in reality rather than revulsion. Pity. It might open the door for more of those shockers in an even more interesting flavor.

Mark passes back the spliff on the sly, not having hit on it. He thinks I do not notice these things. One lesson that Mark (and many others) have consistently failed to learn is that Guy Laurent notices _everything_.

I'd like to think that he doesn't hit from it because he knows Renfield shall smell it on him and wants to respect the Mountie's strange sensibilities, or at least his sense of smell. I know it is merely because Mark is quite afraid of policemen and doesn't want to push his luck even with a guy he's probably not fucking.

I stub the joint out on the wall behind me, pocketing it. Not quick enough to avoid the glare from Renfield as he walks up on us, but that man's sense of smell is nearly as omniscient as I am, and I am far more willing to push my luck.

Perhaps not as much today, given the contents of my pocket, so I even manage a small apologetic smile to the Mountie who merely nods. _I do not care what you do to yourself, simply keep it off of my streets._ Yes, yes. I remember. I'm being a good little Guy today.

Those two look at one another, saying their soft hellos, pretending not to be not-fucking. Regardless of uniformed state, Renfield still stands to favor his firing side sometimes when he talks to Mark in public, and every time I see it, I wonder. It is not often I cannot immediately interpret what such a thing means. I have a few ideas. Some I prefer more than others, but it is when I see that stance that I have a glimmer of wondering if perhaps I was wrong to shove Mark his way.

Second-guessing such things is not something I often do, so as you might imagine, this troubles me.

Renfield says something to me that I have missed, and I have no desire to volunteer that I was paying more attention to the fucking state of the other two than I was to the speaking, so I merely grunt in response. He looks baffled, and I shrug, leering at them both before I swagger off.

Keeps them on their toes, anyway.

***

Longfellow's angry at me for the bucket stunt.

Can't blame him, really, but it's not like he hasn't woken me up with ice water to the important bits before, so fuck him. He gives the silent treatment worse than Jeanne, but at least he gives it whilst drinking. He'll probably end up challenging someone else's manhood and bleeding on the floor later on, so I'm just biding my time and slamming back shots of whatever the bartender feels like handing me until the show starts.

Somewhere along the line the bartender stuck a curling tape in and I'm draped halfway on the bar, mellowing out and watching. Drew keeps huffing. Just huffing, like a fucking woman, because he doesn't just give you the silent treatment, he wants you to _know_ it. Prick doesn't throw fits for nothing. He loves the attention of all that swearing, so when he goes quiet, you can bet he wants just as much attention.

I'm ignoring him, 'cause it's fun.

I drink. Now and again, I scream at the television, though I've seen this played through a good six or seven times by now, because the bartender doesn't switch things up much. Still, the button is missed by an embarrassing margin, and I shake my head.

Drew huffs again.

I roll my eyes.

Slowly, I turn on him. He looks back at me like he's ready for a swing or something, but I pull a move he least expects. Mostly because this is the first time he'll have seen it used on anyone I wasn't trying to fuck.

I pull my sunglasses down by the bridge and look at him over them. It's a long, level stare, distilled _forgive me_ and trust me when I tell you it is purely for curiosity's sake that I take this route.

My inquisitiveness is answered with the entertainment mustering such a look is due, and he chokes on his gin.

I smirk and return to the taped game, fixing my glasses and listening to Longfellow wiping his face, trying to collect his brain.

Nobody's immune to the Look.

***

When I get home I discover several people from the night before are still fucking _here_.

Eh. I've got nothing worth stealing unless you count what's in my pockets, so I don't care so much, but I've got to wonder if these people don't have somewhere better to drink. Most of them aren't even from here. It doesn't matter. I'm in the mood to be alone tonight, so I flush them out like pigeons and lock the door behind them.

I hit the couch. It's still damp.

Oh well.

I break out the stuff from my pockets and sort it on the coffee table, selecting a bag of shrooms and picking out a good one. I pop it and lean back, waiting for it to hit me.

The Renfield thing has been niggling at me all day. I do not know why. Perhaps it's that I enjoy a little mystery in life, but this unanswered question has an undercurrent I do not quite like. This troubles me. I do not like not liking things. That is something I generally avoid.

I know that I will figure it out eventually, one way or another.

My eyes are shut when I hear the window rattle. It is my turn to huff, half-grinning, when I hear Longfellow clatter in.

He settles beside me on the damp couch and my shroom bag crinkles. It is the last thing I hear before the trip settles on me for the night.


End file.
